


Fount of Honour

by JerichoJaspersJeromeJr



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canonical Character Death, Everybody Lives, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Minor Violence, hot hot hardcore peerage action, no entails were broken in the writing of this fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-13
Updated: 2017-03-13
Packaged: 2018-10-04 05:10:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10268987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JerichoJaspersJeromeJr/pseuds/JerichoJaspersJeromeJr
Summary: Prompto learns how to address an Earl's wife, write a letter to an Oracle, sit the King's Shield at a formal dinner and other critically important life skills.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for this [kinkmeme prompt](http://ffxv-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/841.html?thread=1288521).

Prompto wakes in slow stages from a dream of chocobo chicks and behemoths and groggily brushes away at the feathers smothering his face until he figures out it’s just Noctis’ hair. Trying to pull himself up so he can breath again leads to the further realisation that there really isn’t a behemoth trying to brood the chicks after all - it’s just Gladio sprawled out on top of him, all 260lbs of him.

The storm from his dream seems real enough, though. There’s a loud rattle of rain against the windows and the rumble of thunder in the distance. Prompto closes his eyes and tries to sink back to sleep, but Gladio and Noctis just crowd him in closer and there’s a bony lump digging into his back that’s probably Ignis’ knee.

Back before anything had actually happened Prompto used to worry he’d freak the others out when they found out what clingy sleeper he was. It was hard enough to try and keep himself from touching them all the time while he was awake. While he was asleep and at the mercy of his subconscious, well . . . 

And then it had turned out he was worried for nothing because they were _all_ embarrassingly clingy sleepers. Whenever the four of them slept together in the same bed it was like it was the gods-damned All-Insomnia Sleep-Cuddler Contest, Gold Medal Round. 

Prompto rolls his eyes at his past self as he tries to wiggle free without waking the others. Luckily he can do this mostly by ruthlessly shoving Noctis aside, Noctis just grumbling softly before snuggling into the warm spot Prompto left behind. 

Noctis’ battered and much-abused alarm-clock tells Prompto it’s much later in the morning than he thought, nearly 7, the storm’s just making the sky look a lot darker. 

He sits at the foot of the bed and considers his options. His morning wood’s feeling pretty insistent and a Noctis getting gently fucked awake is one of the most beautiful sights in Lucis. Then a soft sigh from behind him draws his attention and he turns his head to watch Ignis curl in closer against Noctis, Gladio shifting his arm to cover them both, and he gets an idea that's even better.

Prompto pads into the kitchen and cracks a yawn as he opens the fridge and rummages around. There’s a covered jug full of egg-whites, left-over from Ignis’ baking-spree yesterday, half an onion, a neglected-looking package of spinach and some odds and ends of ham and cheese.

He’s not a fraction of the chef Ignis is but Prompto’s had to learn to cook for himself at home and he thinks he does a decent egg-white omelette. And, hey, it’s pretty much never that Ignis gets to sleep-in.

He hums the Kenny Crow jingle to himself as he gets out the frying-pan.

Prompto cooks for himself first, making his omelette with spinach and enough chili flakes to kill a wyvern, and then starts in on washing last night’s dishes. He’s almost done when Ignis shuffles into the kitchen, just before 8, and Prompto can’t help grinning because half-asleep Ignis, with his soft eyes and his disheveled hair, is a rare and precious sight.

“Morning, Iggy,” Prompto says, drying his hands and putting a clean coffee-cup on the counter, “How do you want your omelette?”

Ignis takes the cup mutely and gives him a kiss on the cheek, then stumbles over to the gleaming silver coffee machine. Prompto waits patiently and goes back to washing the last few plates. It’s only once Ignis is half-way through his second cup that he blinks and looks up, “I’m sorry, Prompto, I believe I may have missed a question?”

“I’m making omelettes, would you like one?” Prompto says and the smile Ignis rewards him with was worth waiting for.

“Ham and cheese would be lovely, thank you,” Ignis says.

“No veg?” Prompto asks, surprised.

“Gods, no, not in an omelette,” Ignis says with a shudder, pouring himself a third cup of coffee, “Besides, I’m sure any evidence against me will be consumed long before Noctis wakes up.”

Prompto laughs and turns the stove back on, “Yeah, good point.”

By the time the omelette is cooked Ignis has already colonised the table with an assortment of files and notepads and one extremely impressive-looking book covered in tooled and gilded leather.

Prompto sets the plate down in the one clear spot he can find and then sits down next to him and nudges Ignis’ leg with his foot, “Hey, Iggy, you know it’s okay to take a break once in awhile, right?”

Ignis chuckles and sets aside his notebook, “It’s not actually work, but I suppose I should take a break for breakfast anyway. “

Prompto holds his breath as Ignis takes the first bite of his omelette and the appreciative noise Ignis makes makes something warm blossom in his heart, “It’s okay, right?”

“Prompto, it is absolutely delicious,” Ignis says, taking another bite.

Prompto blushes, flustered, and tries to change the subject, “So, what are you working on that’s not actually work?”

“Family records, mostly,” Ignis says between bites, “My second-cousin-once-removed has just announced a late-in-life pregnancy and as the Earldom of Scientia descends by agnatic primogeniture and because my third-cousin-twice-removed is an absolute idiot it falls to me to explain why this new child would bump him from third to fourth in line.”

“Um,” Prompto says.

“I’d leave my uncle to do it but I’m afraid he just may haul-off and punch the man. Honestly,” Ignis shakes his head, “It’s not _that_ hard to understand the difference between agnatic and absolute primogeniture.”

“Is it?” Prompto blurts out, then coughs, “I mean, yeah, completely agree.”

Ignis glances at him, a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth, and Prompto gasps and punches him in the shoulder, “You asshole, you totally did that on purpose!”

“Only a little,” Ignis chuckles, “In my defense it is genuinely what I’m working on right now . . . but I will admit it does get a little convoluted.”

“Convoluted?” Prompto huffs, “I didn’t even know you had an Earldom, I thought your family were Counts.”

“We do,” Ignis says, “but the titles are equal in rank and the second holder of the title was female and there’s no such thing as an Earlless. The 2nd Countess of Scientia was succeeded by her daughter and then her granddaughter and so when her great-grandson took his position the Queen's Steward made a mistake in the Writ of Summons and . . . I’ve lost you, haven’t I?”

Prompto shakes his head hurriedly, “No, no, I . . . this is really interesting, the whole nobility thing. I’ve been thinking I should learn more about it!” 

Then he replays the words he just said in his head and winces.

“Really now,” Ignis says, mouth twitching again, “Well, luckily for you I’m just the man to help with that. Any pressing questions you have that I might answer?”

Prompto flounders for a few moments before it occurs to him that wait, yes, yes he does have questions. He actually has _a lot_ of questions, “Well, okay, so . . . you’re your uncle’s heir, right?”

“Yes,” Ignis says, between mouthfuls of omelette.

“So why don’t you have a title?” Prompto asks, “Cause I kind of remember back when your grandfather was alive the news used to call your Uncle . . . Baron Stupid? Something like that? I kinda assumed it was just a weird noble thing that’d make more sense in context.”

“Baron Stupeo,” Ignis corrects, covering his laugh with a cough, “It’s the courtesy title my family uses for the heir but I’m only what’s called a ‘heir presumptive’, it means I can be displaced from succession. If my uncle were to have a son he’d become what’s called a ‘heir apparent’ and only a heir apparent should use a courtesy title.”

“Ignis,” Prompto says, “Your uncle is 65 and owns seven cats, he’s not going to have any kids.”

“Well, I can’t say I’m worried about my prospects specifically but in theory it could still happen,” Ignis says, taking a sip of coffee, “Though I admit I’m not exactly crushed to not be Baron Stupeo.”

Prompto snorts, “Yeah right, I’m sure you’re really secretly heart-broken.”

“Alas, utterly bereft,” Ignis says dryly.

The lapse into silence again, Ignis eating the omelette with every sign of appreciation and Prompto just sitting next to him, quietly thrilled. It’s all so warm and cozy and the wet grey skies outside only make it better.

Ignis picks up his coffee cup to take a sip and looks at him, “Was that your only question?”

“Um, no,” Prompto says, blushing again, “I . . . I may have a few more.”

“Then ask away,” Ignis smiles.

Prompto ducks his head down and tries to get his thoughts in order, “Yeah, actually, so . . . Gladio?”

Ignis swallows another forkful of egg and ham before he answers, “You’re going to have to be somewhat more specific, I’m afraid.”

“I mean,” Prompto waves his hand about as he tries to figure out how to phrase this, “Glaido’s really, like, SUPER-noble, right?”

Ignis actually does laugh this time, “If you mean to say he’s high-ranked, yes. As heir to the King’s Shield only his father and the royal family themselves out-rank him.”

“But . . . he doesn’t have a title either?”

Ignis’ smile takes on an edge, “Well, formally he’s addressed as Lord Gladiolus . . . but I don’t recommend doing so on a regular basis unless you to want be bench-pressed.”

“Er, yeah, I’ll keep that in mind,” Prompto says, filing it away for reference while trying not to blush even more. He actually kind of likes getting manhandled by Gladio, “How come he’s not called Prince’s Shield or something like that?”

“Technically Gladio protects Noctis as an expression of his loyalty to the King, not to Noct.” Ignis says, “Or at least, that’s how it’s supposed to work.”

“Huh,” Prompto says, turning it over in his head. He’s never really worried about where Gladio’s loyalties lay but now that he tries to think it through all he’s getting is the mental image of Gladio running out of a burning building with Noctis tucked under one arm and Ignis slung over his shoulder. Then he imagines the indignant look that Ignis would have on his face and he bursts out laughing.

“What?” Ignis asks, but it’s not really a question. He’s too used to Prompto by now.

“Sorry, sorry, it’s nothing,” Prompto says, “Man, look at me. I make you food then I keep interrupting you while you’re trying to eat it.”

“Not at all,” Ignis says, “it tastes all the better for your company.”

Prompto grins and slumps a little in his chair, enough so that he has the excuse to nudge his leg against Ignis’, and watches the storm pour down outside as Ignis finishes off the last of the omelette.

Weather this violent is rare in Insomnia, the New Wall dampens all but the strongest storms. It brings Prompto back to fuzzy, half-forgotten memories of when he was very small, staring out of a window at a world of bitter white cold. It’s not a happy memory and he tries to jolt it out of his mind, casting about for a distraction, “So, um. Gladio’s title?”

“Yes?” Ignis says, putting his fork down on an empty plate.

Prompto tries to arrange the thought into a sentence, “Actually, I guess I mean his dad’s title? It’s not Baron Clarus or Earl Clarus or anything, it’s just ‘King’s Shield’, right? Or is he a Grand Duke or something like that and I missed it?”

“No,” Ignis shakes his head, “by tradition the King’s Shield may never hold a fiefdom. A fief is something you have responsibilities to, something you have to protect, and that would only conflict with their responsibilities to protect the King.”

“Kind of sensing a theme here,” Prompto says, frowning, but this isn’t a conversation he wants Gladio to walk in on so he quickly changes the subject, “Well, at least Noct’s simple. It’s just Your Highness, right?”

“Actually,” Ignis says and Prompto groans theatrically because he knows that smirk, “Noct’s full title is His Royal Highness The Prince Noctis Lucis Caelum, Star of Lucis, Duke of Cauthess, Duke of Alstor, Marquess of Ravatogh, Earl of Kelbass, Baron Caem, Baron Galdin, Lord of Angelgard, Most Royal Knight of the Noble Order of the Crownsguard.”

Prompto stares at him for a second and then says, flatly, “You’re shitting me.”

“Absolutely not,” Ignis says, picking up his coffee mug to take the smuggest sip Prompto’s ever seen.

“How does he even remember that all?” Prompto asks, “Wait, does he remember that all?”

“Amazingly, yes, he does.” Ignis says, “he told me once it was like memorising a street address. And before you ask, no, it’s too early in the morning for me to remember what his full title will be when he’s King.”

“Hah! For once, I’ll believe that,” Prompto laughs, “Wait, so what’s Luna’s?”

Ignis pauses with his cup halfway to his lips, then gives a soft sigh, “ . . . of the top of my head? I believe her full title is Her Royal Highness, The Royal Lady Lunafreya Nox Fleuret, Lady of the Sacred Grove of Fenestala, Princess of Tenebrae, Daughter of Eos, Servant of the Trident, Voice of the Hexatheon, by the Blessings of the Six, Oracle. In a better world she’d be addressed as Her Most Gracious Majesty but the Crown of Tenebrae’s somewhat in abeyance right now.”

Prompto winces at himself as the mood turns dour again, way to go, self! But before he can latch onto another topic Ignis beats him there.

“You know, if you joined the Crownsguard maybe one day you could become Sir Prompto.”

“Hah, seriously?” Prompto laughs, “You know that’s never going to happen, Iggy, you’ve seen me fight.”

“Gladio says you’re getting better,” Ignis says softly, almost cautiously, “he’s got faith in you.”

It’s a long-running discussion, not quite an argument, not yet. Prompto doesn’t want to join the Crownsguard, he’s not a good fighter and he hates killing anything, even just bugs. He wants his future to be behind his camera, he wants to be a photojournalist and travel the world.

But Prompto’s the only one who’s got the freedom to make a choice. Noctis and Gladio and Ignis, they’ve all had their lives planned for them since they were born, and if Prompto leaves Insomnia it’ll be without them.

He knows, already, what choice he’s going to make, it’s just that he’s not ready to make it yet.

“Oh hey, you’re out of coffee. Let me get that,” he says brightly, trying to change the subject again as he snags the empty cup from Ignis.

It’s only when he gets to the coffee machine that Prompto remembers, oh yeah, Ignis is the only one who knows how to use the damn thing. It’s the only machine Prompto’s never really gotten along with and he’s actually a little terrified of it.

His finger hovers over a button he thinks might be the one that makes the coffee happen and then there’s a solid warmth at his back as Ignis reaches past him to press a completely different button.

“That was the buttom for the steamer, by the way,” Ignis says, breath stirring the hairs on the back of Prompto’s neck. The hand currently not punching in a complicated sequence into the machine curls around Prompto’s middle, pulling him tight against Ignis’ chest.

“Can’t I just be, I don’t know, Noct’s Royal Mistress? Is there a title for that?” Prompto says with a sigh, leaning back against Ignis.

Ignis huffs a laugh, “Mistress is the female title. You’d be the Royal Favourite.”

“Wait, really?” Prompto twists around to look up at him, “. . . because I think I like the sound of that.”

“Personally I’d find it bloody inconvenient,” Ignis says, leaning down to briefly kiss him before pulling away, “trifling with the Royal Favourite is considered an act of treason, you see.”

“Okay, I can see how that might be slight a problem,” Prompto says as he tucks his hands in the waistband of Ignis’ pajama-pants.

There’s a clinking sound behind Prompto as Ignis sets the coffee-cup down and then a warm hand is running up his side, rucking up his t-shirt.

“Besides,” Ignis says softly, “the title’s been out of use for more than a century.”

“We’ll get Noct to make-up a new title,” Prompto says, a little breathlessly, “I can be Royal Companion or Crownsguard Groupie or His Majesty’s Complication or . . .”

Ignis closes his eyes, as if in pain, and Prompto stretches up to kiss him until he’s smiling again.


	2. Chapter 2

Astral language curves through the air, alien and beautiful and terrifyingly powerful. Prompto hears it through his spine and tastes in his mind and doesn’t understand a single word.

If he had to guess, though, Ifrit and Bahamut are having a bit of an argument right now.

It had all started out the way they had planned for. They had fought their way through the ruins of Insomnia to reach the Citadel, steeled for the fight against Ardyn, ready for the worst, and Ardyn for his part hadn’t disappointed.

Ifrit, the Infernian, more like a devil out of nightmares than any sort of god, and his flames had burned with rage and hatred.

Thank Bahamut for, well, Bahamut showing up when he did.

The Draconian had flung his swords earthwards, caging Ifrit in, and for a moment Prompto had thought that Bahamut was signalling Noctis for a blindside attack. 

Instead, though, they had been knocked down as Bahamut had landed, the courtyard shaking underneath his weight, and then the Draconian had knelt and snatched up Ifrit with one hand.

That’s when all the holy yelling started.

Noctis is staring-up at the arguing gods with a faint look of strain around his eyes that tells Prompto they’re giving him a migraine again.

“What are they saying?” Prompto asks him.

Noctis opens his mouth, then shuts it again, then rubs at his temples, then finally says, “I’m . . . not sure I’m hearing this right.”

There’s a clang of metal above them and Prompto looks up to see that Bahamut has flung back his visor and is raising Ifrit up to his face.

“Holy shit, is he going to EAT him!?” Prompto shrieks and then turns and buries his face in Gladio’s chest so he doesn’t have to watch this.

After a moment, Gladio pats him gently on the back, “It’s okay Prom, he’s . . . Bahamut isn’t eating Ifrit.”

“Maybe that’s round two, if you know what I mean,” Noctis says, voice cracking with nervous laughter midway.

Prompto turns and looks up again and, holy shit, are Ifrit and Bahamut trying to _make out?!_

“Could someone please explain what’s going on?” Ignis snaps, “What are those sounds?”

It’s Gladio who finally answers, “That’d be Ifrit and Bahamut getting along reaaaaaaal well.”

“That’s not exactly very descriptive, Gladiolus,” Ignis says testily.

“Look, you know how the Cosmogony teaches that Bahamut is Leviathan’s consort, right?” Gladio says, “Let’s just say she’s not going to be happy when she finds out about this.”

Prompto watches Ignis’ face shift as he begins to understand the sounds he’s hearing, “ . . . so that noise is . . . ”

Prompto personally thinks he’d give anything to stop thinking about the noises. He’s almost relieved when Bahamut’s gauntlet nearly kills them.

It’s subtle, the smallest change in air-pressure, but Ignis senses it in time to shove Gladio out of the way seconds before the gigantic metal glove embeds itself six feet deep into the asphalt of the grand courtyard. They’re all knocked down again by the massive greave that follows seconds after it, rippling the ground underneath with its impact.

“Holy shit,” Prompto yelps, “is Bahamut _stripping_!?”

“. . . For the sake of clarity,” Ignis says, getting up and dusting himself off, “you said Ifrit was about 40 feet tall?”

“Yes,” Gladio replies.

“And the Draconian was significantly bigger?”

“At least 750 feet, probably more.”

“Well,” Ignis says, “then I’m very glad I can’t see what’s going on.”

There’s a resounding metallic boom from the other side of the courtyard that Prompto assumes was the other gauntlet. 

“We need to find shelter,” Gladio says, “we don’t want to be here when Bahamut gets out of that chest-plate.”

“Grab on,” Noctis commands. He warps them away to the edge of the courtyard just before a pauldron crashes down where they were standing.

There’s a loud whimper of High Astral, something that tangles in Prompto’s memories and reminds him of the first time he ever kissed Noctis, finally working the courage up after months and years of wanting, but also makes him think of a smouldering fire about to combust. He makes the mistake of turning around to try and make sense of it.

Bahamut is doing things to Ifrit with his tongue that Prompto is never going to be able to un-see now.

“I suppose it’s too late for me to play the responsible adult and tell you all you’re too young to be watching this,” a voice drifts down from above them, rich and dark, and Prompto’s blood freezes.

Ardyn is perched above them, lounging in one of the arched windows that overlook the courtyard, smirking down with that smile that Prompto’s learnt to hate more than anything else in the world. His gun is in his hands without him even consciously summoning it and he lines up the shot even though he knows it’s useless. 

The sight of Ardyn toppling back as Prompto’s bullet hits him straight in the chest is still incredibly satisfying.

“On your guards,” Gladio yells and there’s the familiar sound of the warp spell and then Ardyn is standing behind them, tilting his head and smiling again.

“I admit I probably did deserve that.”

Prompto swaps his gun out for the Auto Crossbow while to his left he can hear Gladio quietly murmuring positions and distances to Ignis. To his right Noctis draws Ultima Blade.

Ardyn just stands there and raises an eyebrow, “Well, we can fight if you'd like but it’s all going to be disappointingly anticlimactic, believe me.”

“With how fast you’re about to go down?” Gladio growls, “You son of . . . ”

Gladio’s impressively long string of insults get drowned out by Ifrit’s voice growing increasingly louder. The Infernian’s words are still in High Astral, incomprehensible and unsettling and lovely, but the cadence and repetition of them is jarringly familiar.

“Marvelous, I think I’ve just learnt how to say “Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me” in Holy Astral!” Adryn says cheerfully, “It’s true what they say, no matter how old you get you never do stop learning.”

Prompto raises his crossbow, maybe if he shoots Ardyn again he’ll finally shut up, and that’s when he realises two things. The first is that there’s a spreading redness across Ardyn’s midsection, at the point where Prompto shot him. The second that there’s actually enough light for him to see that Ardyn’s bleeding.

He looks up at the sky and gasps, “Guys!”

“Ah, so you’ve finally noticed,” Ardyn says smugly.

Prompto ignores him, too busy making sure he’s not imagining this. Overhead, the dense black clouds are clearing. He can see a slice of moon and a scatter of stars on the western side of the sky and to the east . . . to the east there’s a blush of rose and gold.

“Holy shit,” Gladio gasps out, “it’s the dawn!”

“Hey Specs,” Noctis says softly, “I can see the stars again.”

“The gods are terrible things,” Ardyn says, looking up at the parting clouds, “The Starscrounge came with the Meteor but it was Ifrit’s rage and jealousy and Bahamut’s guilt and longing that made it so potent. Now they’re busy resolving their issues, well, the sun will take care of the rest.”

Ardyn takes a step towards them and Prompto’s raising his crossbow, hurrying to take aim because, shit, shit, shit, they let him distract them - but there’s the soft woosh of a warp and now Ardyn’s behind them, walking calmly towards the sunlight inching its way through the gaps of Insomnia’s ruined skyscrapers.

“Wait,” Noctis calls out, “Don’t take this the wrong way, douchebag, but what do we put on your tomb?”

Ardyn turns around at that, smile fond, “Why really, that’s very kind of you, my dear Noct.”

“Shut up, this isn’t about you,” Noctis says, “I’m just not going to let anyone cover this up again.”

Ardyn tilts his head, “Fair enough. I should warn you, though, I was never good at remembering it all. Let’s see . . . His Most Blessed and Royal Majesty, Ardyn Lucis Caelum IV . . . or was it XIV? Protector of the Sacred Grove, King of Lucis, Master of Insomnia, Servant of the Si . . .” he pauses, “No, leave the bit out. Something, something, blah blah blah, By Grace of the Go . . .”

Ardyn laughs suddenly, “Does it matter? Just make something up! Put ‘man of no consequence’ if you’d like, just let the people know what their gods did to them.”

He bows to them, an elegant flourish that doesn’t seem entirely mocking, and then turns and begins walking away again. His form blurs as he steps into the sunlight and then he’s dissolving, the purple-black of the Starscrounge billowing out around him as his body fragments into shards of light.

Silver glittering against black mist and it’s so achingly beautiful that Prompto finds himself fumbling for his camera. When he realises what he’s doing he almost drops it, suddenly so angry his hands are shaking. That was the monster who kidnapped and tortured him and _nearly ended the world_ and now he’s won, Ardyn’s won and gotten his beautiful death and fuck him fuck that fuck everything.

“Six, what an asshole he was,” Noctis says, “fuck it, let’s put _that_ on his tomb.”

Prompto turns to look at Noctis, his face edged in the first rays of the new dawn, and his anger ebbs away nearly as quickly as it came because he realises they’ve won, they've won too. They’ve saved the world and yet Noctis is still standing next to him, battered and filthy and alive, and Prompto’s eyes blur as he reaches out to haul him into a hug.

Gladio beats him too it, pulling Noctis into a bear hug and swinging him around, “Ramuh’s Balls, Noct, the sun’s back and look who’s still breathing.”

Noctis laughed, “I’m a screw-up until the end, aren’t I? Couldn’t even stick the prophecy.”

“Fuck that, it was a fucking stupid prophecy anyway,” Gladio says and kisses him.

Prompto feels a hand on his shoulder and turns as Ignis comes up beside him, tucking his arm around Prompto’s.

“Shall I assume by the undignified squawking noises that Gladio’s decided to monopolise Noct?” Ignis asks.

Then it’s Ignis’ turn to make an undignified squawking noise of his own as Gladio reaches out and drags them both into the hug.

Gods, it’s a good hug, Prompto thinks. They’re tangled together, arms slung over shoulders and hands clinging at waists, and maybe he’s crying but that’s okay because maybe everyone else is crying too. It’s a hug good enough to almost make the last ten years worth it.

He feels he could stay that way for hours, just holding on to them, but then a loud and booming moan completely breaks the mood. It’s a sound that simultaneously reminds Prompto of the vastness and wonder of a clear blue sky over the desert and the filthiest porn that Gladio has ever sent him.

Noctis cranes his head around and then horror fills his eyes, “How the fuck are they even . . .”

“Kindly stop right there,” Ignis says firmly, “I do not need any of this described, thank you very much.”

Prompto closes his eyes tight, “Can we get out of here already? I want to find somewhere to watch the sun rise without having to suffer any more mental trauma.”

“An excellent suggestion,” Ignis says, tucking his arm back around Prompto’s, “Lead the way.”

They limp off back towards the gates, the sounds of the amorous gods gradually fading behind them.

“Hey, wait a sec,” Noctis says, halting suddenly, “Prompto just killed the Accursed, right? Doesn’t that make _him_ the Chosen King?”

“Wait, what?” Prompto says, turning around to look at him, “I mean, didn’t he kind of kill himself?”

“Technicalities,” Gladio says, shit-eating grin spreading across his face, “he’d have died from that bullet anyway, _Your Majesty_.”

Ignis pets his arm, smirking, “A King should learn to take both his due blame and his due credit.”

Prompto groans, “Iggy please, no, not you too.”

“Hey, can’t argue with divine prophecy,” Noctis says, sounding way too pleased with himself.

“You’re going to need a style of address and some titles,” Ignis says, “I’m sure Noctis could afford to grant a few.”

“Hell,” Gladio says, “Prom just saved the world, I bet what’s left of Concordia and the Nilfs would be happy to throw in some honours.”

“His Most Excellent and Royal Majesty, Prompto Argentium I, High King of Eos,” Ignis intones, voice ringing out against the empty concrete buildings surrounding them, “Champion of the Sacred Grove, Savior of Insomnia.”

“Hero of Concordia,” Noctis adds.

“Cutest Freckles in Niflheim,” Gladio suggests.

“Guys,” Prompto says, “Guys please I am begging you . . .”

“Duke of Wiz’s Chocobo Post,” Ignis says, ignoring him.

“Protector of Hallowed Hammerhead,” Noctis says, laughing.

“Guys!” Prompto yells but he’s laughing too now.

They keep coming up with new ones, each sillier than the last, as they walk together into the light of the new day.

**Author's Note:**

> Title wankery is my jam, I'm more than happy to hash out details in the comments if that's what you're into too.


End file.
